


A Firm Hold of My Heart

by punktius



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, gay wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punktius/pseuds/punktius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Akielos, a marriage of two people traditionally consisted of three separate parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Firm Hold of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write their wedding and make it as disgustingly fluffy as possible because they've suffered enough and deserve it ok. so this is for bonezz, who helped me so much during my writing process, and ruin, for being my beta <3

In Akielos, a marriage of two people traditionally consisted of three separate parts.

The first, taking place on the morning of the wedding day, was a ceremonial bath. It would be conducted in the royal baths, the large, open room cool in the early hours. Damen, as a member of the Akielon royal family, arrived before Laurent. Nikandros escorted him, the two talking lightly as they made their way.

“Are you nervous?” Nikandros had asked, gripping Damen’s shoulder.

“Are you?” Damen teased, and Nikandros let out a breath.

After a moment, “I trust in your senses.”

That was not an answer. “Nikandros, I know that you and Laurent are not friendly--”

“No,” Nikandros shook his head firmly. “No, it’s not...I have great respect for him,” Nikandros said, as if choosing the words carefully, “after all he did for you. I don’t doubt that he has your best interest at heart.”

Damen smiled. “Not a Veretian snake in my bed?”

Nikandros gave Damen a look. With a shake of his head, he said, “I always knew you would marry a blond,” and Damen shoved him.

They arrived at the baths. The white marble sparkled in the airy morning light, and the things needed for the ceremony were laid out beside one of the shallow pools of water. Damen unpinned his garment and let it drop to the floor, wading waist-deep into the warm water to wait. There were swirling rose petals, and scented oil had been added to the water, surrounding Damen with a subtle sweet smell.

He didn’t have to wait long; Laurent entered a few moments later, arriving in the room with the quiet grace of a feline. He was escorted by Vannes, who was wearing a white Akielon chiton, likely in respect of the ceremony. Laurent was wearing one also, and his hair was tied with leather at his nape.

Traditionally, members of both spouses’ families would be the ones to attend, their mothers and fathers preparing to give away their sons. He and Laurent had none. Nikandros and Vannes would stand in for family, their most trusted friends and advisors bearing witness to the intimate ceremony.

Laurent stopped at the edge of the pool. He had come barefoot, as Damen had. Vannes moved to sit on the reclining couch beside Nikandros a few feet away, and Laurent gave Damen a small, private smile. 

“Good morning,” said Laurent.

Damen was grinning at him. “Good morning,” he said back, as Laurent reached up to unpin his chiton.

The white cloth fell to the floor. Laurent stood, as unabashed as always in his own nudity, appearing much as a golden deity before a shrine. The cool draft untangled a long piece of blonde hair from the tie and blew it over Laurent’s face, which had an unreadable expression. Damen held out his hand, instinctively. Laurent took it, and allowed himself to be lead down the sloping marble into the deepest part of the bath, which was to Damen’s hips but went up a bit to cover Laurent’s navel. Laurent looked up at him, dark-eyed.

“Are you ready?” Damen asked, and reached up to brush Laurent’s hair with his fingers when Laurent nodded. He pulled at the leather strip in Laurent’s hair and let it drop into the water, forgotten. A gold curtain fell around Laurent’s shoulders, soft as Veretian silk and shining with reflection from the water. Damen reached out and took the knife from the edge of the pool, it’s polished steel glinting for a moment as it caught a streak of sunlight. He turned back to Laurent, who was watching him, his lips parting slightly.

For a moment it seemed as though Laurent would say something, but then he just stepped closer, the blade between them. 

Damen lifted his free hand and took a lock of Laurent’s hair in his fingers, feeling the fine strands. The colour was that of gilt paint, or the soft sepals of a sun lily. It was almost a shame to do it. He lifted the knife, and with a smooth motion, cut the lock free. He held it for a moment before letting it slip through his fingers into the water to join the roses.

Their positions were familiar, everything from the brush of their fingers when Laurent took the knife from him to the casual way he held it, the look of focus in Laurent’s eyes, the blade. Damen leaned down, and Laurent still had to reach a bit. He cupped Damen’s head in his palm, simply feeling the curls beneath his fingers for a moment, before reaching up with the knife and severing one; not even a moment’s hesitation hindered him. Damen saw the dark hair stark in Laurent’s pale palm for only a moment before it, too, was dropped into the water.

It was done. The bath itself symbolized purification, washing themselves of the pains and turmoil of their old lives, while the cutting of each other’s hair meant leaving a piece of themselves behind as they set off to a new life, together. Damen thought about that: Laurent beside him for the rest of his life. His body thrummed with a happiness that felt barely contained.

Damen expected Laurent to turn and climb out of the water to dry himself fastidiously, donning again the short cotton and tied hair, but he didn’t. They were staring at each other. Nikandros, who knew that the ceremony was now supposed to be over, fidgeted on the couch, unsure of what was happening or what to do. Damen simply waited.

Laurent arched a golden brow, as though Damen were missing something completely obvious. When Damen still said nothing, Laurent reached out and took the washcloth from the place where the knife had been and handed it over before turning, exposing his back to Damen. He swept his hair over one shoulder and glanced at Damen over it, blue eyes lucid.

“Well?” said Laurent, in Akielon.

Nikandros was on his feet the moment he realized what Laurent was asking Damen to do, hands curling into fists at his sides. “Damianos--”

Damen held up a hand immediately to stop whatever words Nikandros had been ready to spew; another request for a duel of honor, or an accusation of treason. “Leave us,” Damen said, giving Nikandros a pointed look, and Nikandros had no choice but to make obeisance and depart, his ears and cheeks red with displeasure. Vannes trailed after him, having looked immensely entertained by the whole thing. “Your Highness,” she had said with a slight bow, brows arching suggestively at Damen before turning on her heel and walking out.

It was all so that Damen almost didn’t notice the corner of Laurent’s mouth curved slightly upward, a look of something akin to triumph on his face. Damen dipped the cloth in the water, then brought it to Laurent’s shoulders, letting the water fall over lucent skin.

“Why must you provoke him so?” Damen said, smiling, letting himself rest a hand on Laurent’s bare waist. To his delight, Laurent leaned back so that Damen felt his weight against him, his bare skin smooth and warm. Laurent’s hair tickled his face.

“He will have to get used to me one way or another. I plan on being around for quite some time,” Laurent said, his hands resting over Damen’s on his own hips.

“Is that so?” Only a little delightedly. Laurent’s waist was slender and taut when Damen’s arms wrapped around it.

“Yes.”

Damen's attentions, naturally, turned elsewhere. Laurent was naked and wet, and close enough that Damen could smell his hair, could see his long eyelashes clumped together from moisture. Damen's hands began to wander. He felt Laurent's smooth skin beneath them--his shoulders, his ribs, the curve of his waist, the hard bones of his hips. Laurent yielded to his touch, his head falling forward, and let out a strange breath when he felt Damen’s hot arousal press against his back. Damen’s hands continued southward. His voice was deep and rough when he said Laurent’s name into his ear.

Laurent disengaged, suddenly, and was out of the water and toweling himself off before Damen could even process that he was gone, let alone protest. Damen looked up with an expression that was likely one of acute desperation. Laurent turned and picked his clothing up off the stone, giving Damen quite a view as he did so.

“I am saving myself for marriage,” Laurent said, voice dripping with honey, as he pinned the chiton and promptly exited the room.

 

~

 

The second part was the official ceremony, performed in the last and longest hours of the day.

Damen hadn’t seen Laurent since the baths. Hours had been filled with a never ending flurry of activity. The preparation for the ceremonies was immense, and had started when Damen was confined to his bedchambers while his stab wound healed, which was three weeks ago now. After the bath, Damen’s hair had been washed and cut, his beard trimmed close. Scented oils had been rubbed into his skin. A laurel was placed on his head, the green leaves dipped in gilt. Servants wrapped him in a chiton that had edges embroidered with a simple gold pattern, and clasped a cape around his neck. After that he was coached on the ceremony, and rehearsed--ridiculously, he thought--without Laurent present. When he went to the place in the palace where Laurent had been newly residing, the Queen’s chambers, he saw Vannes step out of the room and shut the door behind her. She stopped when she saw Damen standing in the hall.

“Is he in there?” Damen said, gesturing with his chin.

“Yes,” said Vannes, her back firmly to the door.

A moment passed. Damen lifted a brow in question.

“In Vere, it is bad luck for those being wed to lay eyes on each other before the ceremony,” Vannes offered in explanation.

“I saw him this morning.”

“Yes, well that couldn’t be avoided, could it?”

Damen passed a hand over his face. “Vannes. I have already agreed to a wedding ceremony in the Veretian style upon our return to Arles. But we are in Akielos now, and I wish to see Laurent.”

Vannes smiled rather sympathetically at him, and held out her hands in a helpless gesture. “His Majesty’s orders,” she said, and Damen stared hard at the door that led to His Majesty. It was resoundingly shut.

Damen was perturbed, to say the least. He wondered if Laurent had really requested not to see him. It seemed an odd thing for him to do, but Damen didn’t think Vannes would lie to him, either. There were at least a few hours until the ceremony began, hours that Damen had hoped to spend with Laurent, speaking softly to him on a balcony, perhaps, their union imminent, the clandestine smile that only ever appeared when they were alone together present on Laurent’s lips.

Alone with his thoughts, Damen worked himself into a state of restlessness. Was Laurent sure he wanted to do this? Was he having second thoughts, and that is why he didn’t want to see Damen? Laurent was not a superstitious man. Surely there was something more to it than that. With Laurent, there was always something more.

And there was more to this ceremony than the two of them. It was a huge move, politically, and Damen felt the urge to rub his temples whenever he thought of the long, sticky process that would come after, of merging two governances into a single working body, Akielons and Veretians squabbling endlessly while he and Laurent attempted to keep them appeased. This marriage would be, he realized, one of his first serious decisions as King--and not a small one, either, the fate of two countries held in his and Laurent’s hands, their councils both with a watchful eye as their newly risen Kings flexed and yielded their largely unpractised power, not quite loyal enough yet to ease the process. Things could become disastrous if he and Laurent were to even slightly misstep.

His nerves prevented him from thinking properly. He paced in his rooms until Nikandros came to get him when it was time for the ceremony to begin, an hour before sundown. Nikandros took one look at him and went to the wooden table by the window to pour a cup of wine, which he handed to Damen. Damen drank it.

“Old friend, tell me we are doing the right thing,” Damen said, feeling green suddenly, a child in his father’s clothing. He fidgeted with the stone cup, turning it over and over again in his hand, resisting the urge to refill it with wine.

He felt the fleeting struggle, Nikandros having to fight the instinct in him that wanted to say, _do not wed Vere_. It was an automatic, learned response. Nikandros had fought alongside Veretians, had befriended and trusted them, had spent time at length working alongside them. He had seen Laurent argue relentlessly at trial for Damen’s life, while the fate of his own had hung in the balance.

“Yes,” Nikandros said, taking both of Damen’s shoulders firmly to look him in the eye. “it will be well, Damianos. You will marry King Laurent of Vere, and the kingdoms--the kingdom--will experience a long era of peace, and prosperity. Vere and Akielos will be enemies no longer.” He smiled then, and shook his head slightly. “Can you imagine--if your father--”

“I know,” said Damen, his smile amused, and a little sad. “I know.”

As at the baths, Damen arrived before Laurent. It was outdoors, on an elevated circle of marble surrounded by white stone pillars. In the centre of the pillars, facing the ocean, was an elegantly curving arch which the sun shined directly through as it dipped into the water, dying the sea in hues of pink and blue and orange. Torches were lit, bougainvillea petals scattered the floor where they fell from vines that overhung the arches. The breeze was salty and lifted the hem of Damen’s garment and cape. He waited, and thought about who it was he was waiting for. A calm fell over him as he gazed out at the brilliant sunset, his thoughts quieting for the first time since the bath that morning.

Nobles, generals, advisors, and council members, Akielon and Veretian alike, were seated in the rows that rose up behind the pillars. The townspeople had gathered farther beneath the dais. The air was filled with their hushed, anticipatory chatter, voices carried by the wind. They were eager to see their new King wed to the young and freshly ascended King of Vere, whom most of them had never seen before and had only heard stories of, some of them too fantastical to possibly be true. Could he really be so beautiful that he had stolen their King’s heart, even as his captor, who’d had him flogged almost to death? Could he be so intelligent and cunning that he had outwitted his traitor uncle and saved both of their lives while in shackles, just from talk alone? So fierce that he had not only beaten Damianos to the mark at the okton, but killed Kastor the false king as well?

Damen found himself smiling. Laurent, difficult, impossible, untouchable Laurent, had indeed done all of those things, and more.

A silence fell over the guests at once, and Damen turned. Laurent had appeared beneath an archway. Damen’s breath left him in a rush as he took him in: Laurent stood beneath the smooth white stone, the tangle of vines and wisteria matching the laurel that was balanced delicately atop his head, the rich green leaves gold-tipped. His hair was woven into a long braid that went diagonally across the back of his head and ended resting over his bare left shoulder, elegant as spun gold. He wore a white chiton with gold embroidery that resembled Damen’s, neither garment more elaborate than the other, though Laurent’s had a long overfold that flowed from the clasp of royal vermilion at his shoulder down to the backs of his knees. The soft twilight made him breathtaking, his pale limbs bare. 

When Damen met his gaze, Laurent smiled, a genuine, joyful expression, nothing repressed or held back, and Damen’s heart moved in his chest. Laurent’s blue eyes were shining and looked nowhere but at him. Damen felt a little stunned; the extravagance of the ceremony and the silent, awed crowd becoming a surreal backdrop to the heart-stopping image of Laurent. Then Laurent was coming forward, his sandalled feet carrying him carefully up the slight rise to where Damen stood waiting for him.

It struck Damen suddenly--the fact of both of them here, with no lies or deception between them, to unite two countries that had long since been in a contingent war. Laurent came to stand before him and Damen thought, he will always be mine. Laurent’s smile had softened, the expression startlingly gentle, and his hands came up to cup Damen’s cheeks, thumbs brushing away the wetness there. If not for the emotion in his chest, Damen might’ve flushed. He hadn’t noticed that tears had come. He gave Laurent a wry smile.

“I haven’t cried since I was a boy,” Damen said, sounding almost surprised at himself. Laurent was still standing very close to him, the words unheard beyond the close bend of their heads.

“Are you saying I should be flattered?”

“Yes,” said Damen, and then, with helpless honesty, “You look beautiful.”

Laurent’s cheeks immediately coloured, and he turned his face away. Then he took Damen’s arm, gently, and led him to the chiseled stone table in the middle of the dais. Two goblets of Akielon gold were resting on it, half-filled with dark wine. Laurent lifted one with his left hand, and turned to Damen, who had to do the same. Laurent stepped forward into Damen’s space and their arms linked, the twinned gold cuffs exposed between them as they held the goblets aloft. Laurent’s eyes were on his the entire time, as if it were only the two of them. The sun was disappearing beneath the sea, and the glow of dusk fell over them. Damen took a steadying breath.

“I vow to be with you until the sun sets on our final day.” Damen said, the vow ancient, the words passed down. His father would have said this to his mother on their wedding day, and as a boy he often dreamed of the day he would say it to his beloved. In his mind, it was always a woman--beautiful and faceless, her long hair curled and pinned and perfumed. But it was Laurent the Veretian King who stood before him now, his beauty simple and radiant, eyes piercing. Nothing was how he had ever pictured it, yet he felt the reality was better than anything he could’ve ever come up with in his most private fantasies. “I vow to be yours eternally, to belong only to you, and to cherish you as the spring does the olive tree. I swear it.”

Laurent’s expression was open, unguarded, and his words honest. “And I you,” he said, as it was all that was required of him. They lifted the goblets and drank from them, the gold on their wrists clinking against each other for a moment when they drew away. Damen took a step back, meaning to make his way back down the rise, but he stopped when he saw the new look on Laurent’s face. Laurent was watching him almost warily, his jaw set, as though he’d made a decision he was determined to follow through with. His body was held in rigid tension, and Damen could see the desire for flight even as Laurent forcibly repressed it. He waited as Laurent fought an internal battle. The crowd and nobles, although more confused than Damen at the delay, also waited.

“I,” Laurent said, and stopped, a rich colour spreading slowly over his high cheekbones. The words would not come easily. Laurent closed his eyes briefly, and made himself continue. “I have...prepared something,” said Laurent carefully, and then, flushing even deeper, “for you.”

“Alright,” Damen said, after a long moment. Laurent motioned that he should move farther away, and Damen obeyed, walking a few feet to where the smooth upward slope of stone evened into the flat dais. Every pair of eyes was on Laurent as he turned, as if to address them all, though his eyes were uncharacteristically lowered. He took a moment to himself, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin white cotton of his clothing. The slowly fading daylight haloed him, a few stray strands of fine hair had been freed from his braid by the gentle wind and now caressed his face and neck. When Laurent looked up, chin lifted, it was at a fixed point in the distance, the cool self-assurance back in place like it had never been hesitancy. There was a hard look of determination in his eyes, as one set irrevocably on a course of action. Laurent locked his fingers together, one hand over the other, his elbows out by his sides in a pose that echoed in Damen’s memory.

It was with a shock that Damen realized what Laurent was about to do. He wondered where Laurent had heard of it, the tradition so old that Damen could not remember having ever attended a wedding where he was able to witness it. Laurent’s pose was one popular among spoken poets and entertainers in Akielos, as they readied themselves for recitation.

Damen could not believe it, even as Laurent began to speak, his voice clear and carrying.

 

_It seems to me he is equal to the sun_  
_The man who sits within the scope of your sweet voice_  
_And of your laughter_  
_Which stirs the heart within my breast_

 

Laurent spoke in the lilting dialect of Isthima, as poetic tradition called for. Damen recognized the poem. It was a well-known ode by the poet Isagoras to his lover, the young and unnamed adonis. Typically, it was sung in harmony with the trill of a flute, or the delicate strumming of a kithara. Laurent, by contrast, had only his voice, the cadence of his Veretian accent making the words exotic and enchanting.

 

_Yet my tongue freezes and_  
_Beneath my skin a fire rages_  
_And my eyes are empty_  
_But my ears are full_

 

Laurent hadn’t been looking at Damen as he said the words, but he did now, his eyes moving from a point on the horizon to meet Damen’s own. They gazed at each other as Laurent continued, the words softening, although the volume of his voice did not change.

 

_But as for him_  
_He rushes from Isthima’s isle_  
_Crazed, scorching, cavernous_  
_And bold_

_And keeps a guard’s firm hold of my heart._

 

Laurent finished with his steady gaze on Damen, the rest of the world melting away from them as a wide smile that he couldn’t control broke on Damen’s lips. It was a moment before he heard the roar of approval from the crowd, none of them having expected Laurent to recite a poem of his choosing in the ancient and rarely practiced style of Isthimac betrothal, rarely performed anymore in Ios, or in any of Akielos besides Isthima itself. The Akielons were impressed, pleased, and the Veretians revered in their golden King, full of so many hidden talents and treasures. Laurent had won them all over in the span of a few minutes and with words alone, even the hard-pressed and prejudiced Akielons, who had been vocally disdainful of their King’s engagement to Vere. Laurent came toward Damen now as if none of that mattered to him, as if Damen was the only one he sought approval from. Damen stepped forward, too, reaching out, and their fingers brushed.

“Laurent,” Damen said, but too much was happening now. Laurent’s performance had ignited a passion within the crowd. The high-bred streamed down from the alabaster grandstands, the Akielons first and followed, after a moment, by the Veretians, who were likely just following their lead. Laurent took Damen’s hand, their fingers sliding together as the crowd edged them toward the slope, where they were met from the townspeople with a shower of the deep magenta flower petals that had danced delicately around their feet. Damen laughed, a rich, sonorous sound as it pushed at the inside of his chest, and he felt Laurent’s grip tighten around his own. They made their way down the slope and to the litter that awaited them at the end of it. Damen first parted the curtain for Laurent and then followed him inside, the cheers of the crowd fading behind them as they were escorted swiftly away.

 

~

 

The third and final ceremony was a grand feast in honor of the marriage, and thusly, the new and conclusive union of Akielos and Vere. 

The hall thrummed with people, a mix of spirited Akielons in their short and brief garments, and Veretians, who were either in typical tight-laced affair or in a mix of the two styles, which Damen noticed was becoming popular among Veretian nobility. It was especially so for those on the council, who had been in Ios long enough to realize that Veretian clothing was not made for the swelling and oppressive heat of the south. The style was influenced by none other than Laurent himself, who had taken to wearing the simple chitons almost daily, and on those days that he didn’t, donned the very fine white shirts he usually wore beneath his heavily laced jackets, with sandals and skirts made of soft Akielon leather.

They sat alongside each other now, on massive oak thrones at the head of the great table. They had been brought directly here from the ceremony in their cushioned and curtained litter, strewn in the most expensive cloths and fine silks, all supplied generously by Charls the Veretian cloth merchant. The ride had been brief, with Damen looking at Laurent as though he couldn’t quite believe the fact of him.

“What?” Laurent had asked, his sly smile indicating that he already knew the answer.

“Are you going to be surprising me like this forever?” Damen knew he sounded as hopelessly besotted as he felt. He didn’t care. Laurent’s smile only grew.

“That is the plan, yes.”

Damen realized suddenly that Laurent had locked himself in his rooms all day not because he’d had a case of cold feet, as Damen had worried was the case, but his first instinct of something mischievous on Laurent’s part had been a more accurate assessment; Laurent had spent the hours preparing and practicing the poem for their ceremony. Damen also realized, with clarity that was only possible in hindsight, that Laurent hadn’t even been sure he would go through with the recitation until the moment that he had. Damen sat back against the cushions as he remembered the lyric in Laurent’s voice, intimate and lovely, a public confession from a man who, since Damen had known him, was intensely private. A pleasant warmth spread through his whole body. Laurent leaned over and claimed his mouth, sweetly, and they didn’t break from one another until the litter arrived at the great hall. 

The meal was a grand feast of spiced meats and plates stacked with flat breads, followed by treats of fresh fruit with honey and sweetmeats. The wine was passed around, and when Makedon settled at the main table in a spot to Laurent’s left, so was the griva. He had a large, fat-bellied bottle of it clasped in his fist, which he came and handed to Laurent. “A wedding gift from my uncle,” he said, grinning, and gave Laurent one of those claps on the shoulder that Laurent had to brace himself against. Damen laughed, and Laurent’s catlike gaze swung around to meet him.

“Why don’t you have the first drink, darling?” Laurent said in a saccharine voice, his smile barbed as he held up the bottle. Damen made eye contact with Makedon, who was grinning at him expectantly. Damen steeled himself as he brought the bottle to his lips, and tried not to grimace when the griva slid like flame down his throat.

“Smooth,” he had to clear his throat before he said it. He passed the bottle and everyone had a drink.

Everyone, but one person. Damen was the only one that seemed to notice when the bottle skipped Laurent and was once again in his own hands. Damen took a swig and then looked at Laurent, an eyebrow raised.

“Don’t want any?” he said.

“I think I will vomit if I even smell it,” said Laurent, his mouth twisting in distaste. Damen smiled and passed the bottle.

By the time the bottle came around a third time, everyone seemed to be in quite high spirits. To his left, Laurent was engaged in a conversation about Vaskian fighting styles with Makedon and Barieus, and to his right, Nikandros and Pallas were swapping stories. Nikandros enthusiastically launched into a story from his and Damen’s adolescence about a time they’d both had eyes for the same girl, and Damen questioned Nikandros’s memory when he said the girl chose him, in the end. Pallas suggested that perhaps she really had chose them both, unbeknownst to them, and Nikandros scoffed as if this were impossible. The memories were good, the misremembering made their sides ache with laughter, and the three of them had another drink. Damen was beginning to feel very warm and light, and declined when a servant girl offered to refill his cup with wine, stopping her again when she made to top off Laurent’s cup. Laurent was prudent and knew how to space out his wine intake over the course of an evening, though Damen couldn’t say he shared the same ability.

He was barely aware of it when Nikandros began speaking to him privately, Pallas having wandered off after spotting Lazar across the room. Nikandros was saying something about his slave cuff, which caught Damen’s attention. Nikandros still disliked it, the cuff and the implications. It was a blow to his authority as King, an ever-present reminder that Damianos had served a Veretian Prince as a bed slave. Nikandros had dropped the subject, for the most part, when it became apparent that Damen was not going to have the gold removed from his wrist no matter what it signified. Evidently, that didn’t stop him from trying one last time, tongue loosened by the drink. Perhaps he and Laurent could exchange other jewelry, Nikandros suggested helpfully. Or perhaps the cuffs could be foregone altogether now that their relationship was solidified through marriage, a piece of their past left there.

Damen hardly had time to brush him away before Laurent politely disengaged himself from conversation and turned his full attention on Nikandros, blue eyes glinting with a subtle danger that Damen recognized. His cup was balanced precisely in his fingers.

“It seems to bother your kyros endlessly that I commanded you in bed,” said Laurent, his gaze never leaving Nikandros. Damen felt Nikandros’s temper peak, and took the last deep drink of wine from his own cup as the exchange continued.

“It bothers me,” said Nikandros, “that at every opportunity, you try and get him to kneel at your feet while all the while claiming you are equals.”

“It hurts your Akielon pride to know that your King gets on his knees for me, does it?” Laurent spoke steadily, his brow creased with false concern. “I can assure you, he does it willingly.”

Nikandros flushed. There were still the Akielon signifiers of power and manhood tied to acts of submission in the bedroom, beliefs that Nikandros held within him. Nikandros’s fuse was further shortened by the alcohol, and so, wisely, he stood up to excuse himself before he said something he and Damen would both regret. But he had riled Laurent, and in that aspect, it was already too late.

“Are you going to give a demonstration with one of these thick-cocked Akielon commanders?” said Laurent, with an innocent tilt of his head that was incongruous with the dagger of his gaze. “I’m afraid I’ll have to miss it. I have plans of spending the evening between Damianos’s legs.”

“You,” Nikandros said, his voice thick. “are--”

“Nikandros,” Damen warned, and Nikandros bit down on his words. Laurent smiled at him, the tips of his fingers coming to rest on the smooth gold on Damen’s left wrist, a subtle, intimate gesture. Nikandros’s eyes flickered down to follow it.

“I am quite possessive,” said Laurent. His tone was at odds with the pleasant curl of his lips. He was a corpus of contradictions, the first sweet taste of honey from a nest before the needling sting of the drone. Nikandros let out a breath of disbelief, drained his wine.

Conversation, effectively, ended.

It wasn’t long after that the loud voices and chatter in the hall began to die down, guests having either retired or fallen into a drunken stupor. The celebration was still a few hours from being over, Damen judged, and drank from his cup, which now contained only water. A few more hours, and he could be alone with Laurent. They had been given more gifts throughout the night, and Laurent received a great many compliments on his performance at the betrothal ceremony, all of which he accepted gracefully. Damen found himself smiling to himself whenever it happened, his people having been impressed by this fiery foreign king, who clearly held their own heir so dearly in his heart. Damen felt with a strange sense of pride that Akielons would soon come to think of Laurent as their king, also, and for a moment, the thought seemed almost surreal.

It was with surprise that Damen felt Laurent touch his shoulder, and rise. Laurent had a private look in his eyes, one that Damen recognized, blue gaze laden with promise. Damen rose, also, trying not to overturn anything in his haste to follow Laurent’s retreating figure. They garnered more than a few suggestive looks and knowing nods as they exited the hall, and Damen was unable to stop himself from smiling all the way.

 

~

 

There was, of course, an unspoken fourth part to a wedding ceremony.

He let Laurent lead him to the bedchambers, the white halls of the palace empty as they walked through them, gleaming with lit candles and torches spaced at intervals. Laurent entered when they arrived at the heavy wooden doors, sparing not even a glance to the two guards stationed there. Damen did not give them orders of privacy, the command very well implied. As it was, Damen doubted that anyone would be looking for him and Laurent for quite some time, and especially not on their wedding night. He simply gave the men an acknowledging nod before following Laurent inside.

Laurent was on him the moment he stepped foot in the room, Damen barely with time to shut the door behind himself. Laurent’s manner was as though they had finite time to be together, as if they didn’t have the rest of their lives to indulge in this. His kisses were open-mouthed, feverish, as if he had been craving Damen for an eternity, longer. Damen kissed him back with equal intensity, his hands gripping Laurent’s hips so hard that the short chiton rose up from his thighs. Laurent’s leather-wrapped foot slid up Damen’s calf and Damen reached behind to pull him closer, their arousals brushing. Laurent bit down on Damen’s bottom lip and sucked, pulling back with it between his teeth, and Damen moaned into his mouth. It seemed to spur Laurent on, slender fingers clutching at his hair, his shoulders. Laurent hitched up and Damen took his weight easily, Laurent’s legs wrapped around his hips, eager lips relentlessly upon his own. 

Damen walked them to the bed, blindly, almost overturning a table in the process, the bowl of fruit and a vase that had been resting on it teetering before crashing to the floor. They were laughing quietly at his clumsiness as Damen laid Laurent down on the bedding, his hair splayed out around him, the braid having come undone sometime during the meal. Laurent was breathless and brilliant in the candlelight, his cheeks and chest flushed, looking up at Damen with open emotion in his eyes. Damen knew he was about to speak, and waited for him to do so, prepared entirely for some nettling comment, one of the teasing remarks Laurent liked to tantalize him with in bed. But Laurent’s voice was very soft when he spoke, as if he were shy.

“We are married,” he said, almost as though he were asking.

“Yes,” Damen said, and Laurent seemed to shiver with it. And then they were kissing again, gently this time, their clothes coming undone, until there was nothing between them. Their heartbeats were almost synchronized when Damen nuzzled at the skin beneath Laurent’s jaw, his pulse beating rapidly there. Damen found himself awash again with it, the breathless realization that they had endless time together, that he could go as slowly as he wanted and feel Laurent open for his touch, that he could make love to Laurent for hours, days, until they didn’t know where one body ended and the other began. Laurent’s fingers tangled in his hair as his thighs slid open.

Damen settled between them, familiar, and the fact that it was familiar sent a thrill through him. They’d made love many times in the past few weeks, yet there was a certain electricity in the air now that was heady. Laurent made a small noise beneath him when their erections pressed together. Remembering to breathe was difficult.

“Tell me,” Laurent said as Damen kissed his neck. “Tell me how it will be.”

Damen remembered Laurent’s words from when they had spent the night together in Mellos. Show me how it could be. Laurent had flushed then when he said it, but he met Damen’s gaze easily now, eyelids at half-mast. We lay in our marriage bed, Damen thought, and it did odd things to his heart. Laurent’s lips were parted.

“We will grow old together, with our kingdom at peace.” said Damen, brushing Laurent’s hair back from his face. He kissed Laurent’s eyelids, gently, the proud cheekbones, the marble curve of his jaw. Laurent’s pulse beat like the roll of a snare beneath his lips. “Nothing, no one, will ever keep us apart again.”

Laurent let out a breath that was like a sigh when Damen moved down his body, stopping to suckle a pebbled nipple into his mouth. Damen kept moving, his mouth raising gooseflesh where it caressed Laurent’s ribs, his taut stomach. The air was thick with the promise of his words, and Laurent was silent, caught up in an act of surrender. Damen rubbed his face on the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, which turned a bit red from the chafe of stubble. Laurent shivered, slightly.

“I will always be by your side,” Damen gazed at Laurent earnestly, wanting him to know how much he meant every word. “You will never be alone.”

Something changed in Laurent’s expression then, and Damen felt the remaining defenses dissolve. The more they did this, the easier it was each time for Laurent to give himself over, Damen’s words and hands and mouth coaxing him until he crested. Laurent’s pupils were so large that only a small ring of blue was visible around them. Damen brushed his knuckles over Laurent’s jawline, the touch barely there.

“You are always so gentle,” Laurent said, his wrists coming to rest above his head on the mattress. His breathing was visible. “Do you think I will break?”

“I don’t have to be.”

The corner of Laurent’s mouth turned up a bit, at that.

“No,” he said. “But you will be.”

It was a statement, not a command, and they both knew it was true. Damen tried not to smile ridiculously as he sat back on his heels. “Turn over.”

Laurent obeyed, shifting onto his stomach. Damen ran a hand over the curve of his backside, tentative. “I want to try something,” he said, and Laurent nodded his consent.

Damen took one of the downy pillows and lifted Laurent’s hips to place it beneath, propping him up. He pushed Laurent’s thighs further apart, exposing fully the most intimate part of him, and applied his mouth.

The quality of Laurent’s surprise was tangible. He gasped, somewhat loudly, and Damen felt him forcing down any further reactions. Damen accepted the challenge. He wanted to tear every noise from Laurent, wanted him to writhe, to moan. He wanted Laurent to lose himself. Damen had been saving this for the night they were to consummate, the act private, personal. He had imagined it countless times, the way Laurent would open for him like a moonflower waxing at nightfall, Damen’s name dripping from his lips. There was a point Laurent was sometimes able to reach where he could forget himself completely and give his body over to primal pleasure, and Damen was determined to take him there tonight.

He laved with his tongue, and Laurent’s back arched violently. Laurent’s breathing was shallow, harsh from the effort of restraint. He let out a soft noise at Damen’s steady ministrations, and his hips moved unconsciously, head dipping between his shoulders. Laurent’s thighs were shaking; his whole body was shaking.

Damen pushed in with his tongue, firmly, and Laurent broke apart. Yes, Damen thought, as his name came unbidden to Laurent’s mouth.

“Damen,” Laurent said, almost a moan, and then it was unmistakably a moan when Damen breached him, unexpectedly, with his fingers. _“Damen.”_

Damen felt unhinged, dizzy with lust. He needed it suddenly, and reached over to the chest beside the bed, where he kept oil. Laurent was already slick with his saliva, but he coated himself generously with the oil anyway, and lined up.

The head slid in. Laurent made a noise halfway between a gasp and a groan, his grip white-knuckled in the bedding. Damen did not press in further, or move his hips. He waited. Laurent had done this with him enough times now that he did not need so much time to adjust, and he hissed like a viper at the inaction. Damen waited still, his body trembling with the effort. At last he felt Laurent push back against him, just a little at first, and then the total slide of it was inexorable, Laurent’s backside coming all the way back to meet Damen’s still hips in one smooth motion.

They were both breathless for a moment, unable to do anything but feel where they connected, Damen fitting perfectly inside. Then Laurent shuddered fiercely, his forehead pressed to the mattress, as if he’d realized what he’d done, and Damen already felt dangerously close to the edge. He was moving, a rhythm immediately building, and pleasure splintered through him. He needed, desperately, to distract himself, and yet could focus on nothing but Laurent’s enveloping heat, consuming him.

“Laurent,” he said, his voice a deep, rough timbre. Laurent’s noises were becoming more frequent, half-formed words mouthed into the sheets--some of which Damen thought could be his name, but most of which sounded like a string of obscene curses in Veretian. Damen separated from him, pushing Laurent onto his back. He took himself in hand, meaning to guide his cock in again, but Laurent flipped them over so that Damen felt the mussed, warm bedding under his back. He looked up with wide eyes when Laurent straddled him.

They had not quite done this before, either. Laurent reached behind himself, guiding Damen in, and lowered himself until he was fully seated, his mouth falling open soundlessly. Damen forced himself to release his grip of Laurent’s thighs when he realized his fingers were likely going to leave bruise in the pale flesh there. Laurent’s flush was deep, the colour lurid under his lily-white skin, and then he stopped--bashful, perhaps, or unsure of how to continue. Damen sat up on his elbows.

“Still shy?”

Laurent was tense above him. He regarded Damen through his lashes.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A blushing bride in your marriage bed.” Laurent’s voice was only slightly strained, tone a touch too sharp.

“Laurent--”

“You want me to toss my head back and ride you, while you sit back to enjoy?”

Damen said, “I want to watch you come.”

Something flickered in Laurent’s eyes, a breath shuddering out of him. He shifted forward, an inch, more, and then sat back. Again. Damen groaned, pushed himself up to sit. Laurent slid forward in his lap, and they were kissing, slowly, Damen’s hands everywhere, feeling the small movements of Laurent’s hips with his whole body. Warmth pooled in his belly. It was deliciously languid, and the passage of time became blurred, hazy; they might have spent hours joined that way, kissing, pressed together with the slight roll of their hips, and Damen wouldn’t have known it. Laurent arched against him, his erection snug between their bodies, rubbing against Damen’s torso with their motion.

“You’re mine,” Damen was saying against Laurent’s lips, the words like new between them, “You’re mine.”

And from Laurent, a single and succinct Veretian word, “Yes.”

Laurent became tense in a way that Damen minutely recognized, his fingernails biting into Damen’s shoulders, and that was the only warning Damen had before he felt the first hot, wet streak of release between them, Laurent’s whole body trembling with it. Damen--who had been holding back considerably--groaned when Laurent tightened around him, consuming, the tumble of his name from Laurent’s lips and his convulsions pushing Damen over the edge after him. Laurent held him, fingers tangled in his hair, gaze intense when their foreheads touched, and Damen was given over to nebulous pleasure. His body sang with climax as Laurent spoke to him, intimately, guiding him the whole way through it, as a brilliant light slicing through blackness, into oblivion.

 

Laurent had already slipped away by the time Damen came back to himself, but he soon returned, with a towel and a cup of water. Damen wondered aloud how much time had gone by, but Laurent assured him that the night was young as he climbed back into bed, already reaching between Damen’s legs again to take him in hand.

Laurent, of course, was right, and brought Damen to full hardness so efficiently it was almost impressive, considering that he had just finished not long before. And then Laurent made it quite clear that he had every intention of following through with the plans he had mentioned to Nikandros earlier that evening, candid and coy, and Damen simply smiled and spread his legs, eager to have all that Laurent would give him. There was a time after that, also, and another, Laurent reaching for him again and again, well on through the night.

The white walls were glittering with predawn by the time Laurent finally succumbed to sleep. The candles had burned down to mounds of melted wax, the faraway call of birds resounded from high above the sea, and Damen felt so full with joy and tenderness that it prevented him from sleep despite the heaviness in his limbs. Laurent was dozing soundly beside him, looking radiant, rivaling the sunrise. Their lovemaking had been so sultry and lasting that it was hard to remember how many times he had come, or how many times Laurent had, or when the fire in the hearth had gone out, or when they had somehow thrown half the bedding onto the floor. It didn’t matter. All that did at that moment was the fact of Laurent, safe and warm in his bed, a permanent presence. Damen couldn’t help it then--he took Laurent up, enveloping him in his embrace, and Laurent made a soft sound as he stirred from slumber.

Damen would wake up every morning to this view, would lay down to sleep every night with Laurent in his arms. No one else would ever touch him this way. He was Damen’s now, as Damen was his, always. The gold on Laurent’s wrist was warm where it pressed against Damen’s side, as if it were inseparable from Laurent’s skin; Damen’s own was a wonderful weight that he felt with every part of himself. He felt intoxicated with the astonishing fact of it, for it was like a dream, only better, and he thought of everything that had transpired to lead them both here, the sheer serendipity impossible. Laurent’s face tilted up to meet his, long eyelashes fluttering for a moment.

“Good morning, my husband,” said Laurent, quietly. He was smiling.

Damen knew--he was certain now--that giving up his past had been worth it a thousand times over if Laurent, lovely as the sunlit cliffs  
and endlessly labyrinthine, was his future.

“Morning,” was all Damen could manage, his emotions plain on his face. Laurent kissed him like he couldn’t help it, as though Damen’s thoughts were his own. Damen pulled Laurent on top of him, the two grappling playfully in the young dawn as Laurent pressed Damen’s wrists to the bed. Laurent was laughing heedlessly, the air ringing with the sound, and there was nothing more Damen could possibly say to make the moment any better.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading, if you wanna talk you can find me on [tumblr](http://jithongchy.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/jithongchy)!
> 
> EDIT; it has occurred to me (rather belatedly) that I should give credit for Laurent's poem, which I did not write myself. The poem used here is actually about 3 or 4 Greek poems that I cherrypicked and strung together, all of which I found on this [website.](http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Greek/Greeklines.htm)


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